


he's staying with me

by sleeponrooftops



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, spoilers for 4x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have been two moments in his life when he couldn’t breathe because of Ian, because of how desperately he needed him to stay, and only one of those was he able to finally figure out how to keep him, how to hold onto him, and he thinks he knows now why Ian makes him breathless, makes his chest ache until he’s gasping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he's staying with me

He can feel it unraveling all day.

 

Since the christening, it’s been a wild dance between them, staying up all hours of the night, dancing and talking and tumbling into bed, fused together like hot wires tangling, just waiting to implode, and it does.  They sleep a little here and there, but then, one night, Ian just crashes, yawning so wide his jaw cracks, and Mickey smiles warmly, coaxing him into bed and kissing him quiet.  They have slow, easy sex that night, and then, finally, they relax.  Ian pulls Mickey close, kisses around his shoulders before his nose rests against the back of his neck, and they sleep.

 

In the morning, when they wake, Mickey swallows down his grin because he’s never felt this okay, never felt this free to just be with Ian in any way he could possibly want.  He brushes a hand over his temple, thumb rubbing against his soft skin, and he feels like some of the cracks ripped open deep inside of him are starting to heal.

 

After the conversation with Svetlana that he’s never going to be able to forget, after noon comes and goes and Ian still won’t get out of bed, after muttering to himself about calling Ian _mumbles_ —fucking seriously, what is wrong with him, his little orange boy is turning him inside out is what—after five o’clock comes and Ian is _still_ in bed, then Mickey starts to worry.  He gets Debbie and Carl to come over because Lip isn’t home—and how did he almost forget Lip’s name, he should know better, Lip is Ian’s best friend—and Carl just stares, his eyes wide and terrified as Debbie keeps saying Ian’s name.

 

Mickey looks on, and when Debbie turns to Carl, shaking her head, the fear starts to leak through, starts to slip into his cracks and fill him up until he feels like he might burst.  They leave, vaguely saying they need to get Fiona because she’ll know for sure, and no one will tell him what’s going on, so he just walks them to the door and watches them leave, biting his lip until it hurts.

 

When he can no longer see them, he closes the door and heads back toward his room.  He doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know how to help him, he doesn’t _understand_.  They’re finally okay, they’re finally just free to do whatever they want, whatever they need, and now it’s falling apart, and he refuses to lose him again.

 

Mickey lingers in his doorway, just staring at the round curve of Ian’s shoulder under the blanket, and he starts to step in when his hand bangs off his thigh, and he looks down, his frown deepening.  His hands are trembling, hard enough that it hurts to move them, and he doesn’t know what that means, so he scrubs them over his face and then goes inside, shutting the door behind them.

 

He strips out of his clothes, naked because he likes the way Ian’s skin feels pressed against his, and he carefully climbs into bed, sitting next to his orange boy.  “Ian,” he whispers, lifting a hand to curl around his shoulder, just letting it settle there.  He needs to touch him, to know he’s real, to know he’s not going anywhere, to know that he’s here to stay, that he’s _his_.

 

“Go away,” Ian mumbles, and Mickey lifts his hand, scratching through his hair, fingers bunching as he closes his eyes.

 

“Ian, please,” he says, his voice cracking a little, “Don’t.”

 

The silence sits, thick and awful, until Ian slowly shifts until he’s facing Mickey.  “Don’t what?” he asks, and Mickey looks down at him, trying for a small, wavering smile.

 

“Don’t leave me,” he says, hand coming down again, thumb stroking over one of his eyebrows before he rests it against the top of his head.  “Stay with me,” he says, softer this time before he leans down to press a careful kiss to his lips.

 

“Okay,” Ian says, and he looks so exhausted that Mickey scoots down until he can put his back to him, but Ian lifts a tired hand and tugs at him.  Mickey looks over his shoulder, and Ian keeps tugging, so he turns, facing him.

 

“Do you want—” Ian cuts him off as he burrows close, hiding in the shadow of Mickey’s bent head, the circle of his strong arms, the warmth of his body, and Mickey just curls around him, holds onto him and presses them close together.  “You’re okay,” he whispers, and Ian sucks in a heaving breath, his shoulders jumping.  “Hey,” Mickey murmurs, tipping his head down to kiss Ian’s mussed hair, “You’re okay.  You’re safe.”

 

“Mickey,” he gasps, and then he’s shattering apart.  Mickey rubs his back, and he doesn’t know what possesses him, doesn’t know what comes bursting out, but suddenly he’s whispering to him, anything that sounds even remotely soothing, anything that might make him laugh or calm or _something_ that isn’t this, and though it doesn’t work, though Ian ends up crying himself to sleep, Mickey thinks his quiet sobs could be so much louder, his easy trembling could be full body tremors, thinks he might be helping a little.

 

In the morning, Fiona shows up.  Mickey’s already tried to coax Ian out of bed with food, and then, when that doesn’t work, sex, but Ian shouts at him, this dull, aching roar, and Mickey leaves him be.  He paces around the house until there’s a knock, and he hurries to let Fiona in.  When she sits on the bed, curled over Ian, her soft voice makes his hands tremble again, and he walks away, slamming the bathroom door behind him.  He presses the heel of his palms against his eyes, his teeth biting down sharply against his lip as he pushes it all away.  He needs to be strong for Ian, needs to be steady so he can help him ride out whatever this is.

 

After, when Fiona says it, _bipolar_ , after he goes into overdrive and Mandy has to remind him what bipolar is—he knows what it fucking is, he remembers Ian shaking on his doorstep, his big eyes welling with tears, remembers his cracking voice, _I need to see you_ , remembers the way he’d fallen apart when Mickey had come into the store, chewing on his lip until he finally found him, because that was the first time he held him, pulling Ian against him roughly, fingers bunching in his shirt as he held him close, whispered desperately into his neck, _you’re okay,_ remembers how it had felt after, in the fridge, how hard and needy Ian had been—after she tries to say that they’ll take him to a clinic, after she says _suicidal_ and _impossible_ and all of these fucking words that are pushing him over the edge, that are breaking apart his carefully constructed wall until he’s jerking away from her, hand lifting to swipe away a tear that dared slip past his notice.  And then they’re just coming, and he can’t stop them, and he doesn’t know what he sounds like, but the way Mandy looks at him lets him know that he’s a wounded animal right now, that he’s being caged in, and his hands hurt from shaking when he tries to light his cigarette and snaps, “He’s staying here.  He’s staying with me.”  They’re falling freely now, and he knows Fiona sees it, knows she understands, knows she’s right but he can’t lose him again, not now, not after it all, _not again_.

 

He’s always in this in between state of losing Ian, of not being able to wind them close and kiss him quiet, tangle their legs together and feel his breaths rising and falling with his own, and he can’t do it again.  He needs him.

 

When Fiona’s gone, when Mandy convinces Debbie and Carl to go to school, when she promises she’ll call Lip again so Mickey will stop asking, when it’s just him and this empty fucking house, he goes back to his bedroom, lingering in the doorway again.  Ian is just lying there, and there’s not enough oxygen.  Mickey can’t catch his breath, can’t remember how to breathe, and he thinks that’s his sign.

 

There have been two moments in his life when he couldn’t breathe because of Ian, because of how desperately he needed him to stay, and only one of those was he able to finally figure out how to keep him, how to hold onto him, and he thinks he knows now why Ian makes him breathless, makes his chest ache until he’s gasping.

 

Mickey stops lingering, pads quietly into the room and closes the door behind him.  He goes first to the curtains, opens them wide because even though he knows Ian is going to groan and turn away from him, he loves the sunlight, loves the warmth pouring over him, and so he lets it fill the room in golden bursts now.  To his surprise, Ian just opens his eyes when he does so, beams filtering over him as he lets his gaze shift up to Mickey.

 

“Hey, tough guy,” Mickey says softly, coming over and kneeling by the bed, reaching out with one hand.  Ian shrugs out from under the blankets, lifting his hand so Mickey can tangle their fingers together, can rub a circle with his thumb that actually makes the corner of Ian’s mouth twitch.  “I saw that,” Mickey says, and Ian closes his eyes.  “Hey,” Mickey says, squeezing his hand, and Ian opens his eyes again.  He looks so tired, Mickey just wants to kiss him and let him sleep, but he needs him right now, and so he sighs and rests his head on the bed, looking up at Ian.  “What can I do?” he asks.

 

“Nothing,” Ian mumbles, “Nothing.”

 

“Okay,” Mickey says, “Still progress, asslamp.”

 

Ian makes a quiet noise that might be something close to a broken laugh, and Mickey smiles for him, squeezing his hand again before he lifts up and over, pressing a soft kiss to Ian’s temple.  “Whatever you need, I’m here,” he whispers, and when he pulls back, Ian’s brow is furrowed, and his eyes are filling.  “Hey,” Mickey says, reaching up to swipe a thumb under his eyes, “You’re okay.”

 

“I need _you_ ,” Ian whispers, and Mickey nods, releasing his hand before he stands and pulls off his layers.  He slips under the blankets next to Ian, but he leaves space between them, taking Ian’s hand in both of his, cupping his fingers around his trembling ones, lifting them to kiss his knuckles.

 

“Ian,” he presses his name into his hand.

 

“Mickey, please,” Ian mumbles, trying to pull at him.

 

“Hey,” Mickey says, looking back up, and Ian stops, just staring at him with dead eyes.  His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and his chest aches, this dull ache like he’s being hollowed out, his throat tight and dry, his lungs still as Ian pulls the breath right out of him, keeps it as his own, and Mickey leans forward to steal it back, kissing him softly.  He feels braver here, this close to his orange boy, and he closes his eyes, leaning their foreheads together as he exhales the words against his mouth, “I love you.”

 

Ian kisses his silent words, presses them into Mickey’s mouth, lets him swallow them down, and though he doesn’t say it back—can’t yet, not with this shadow falling over him—Mickey understands, and he can breathe again when they settle, Ian staring at him with something that looks a little bit like hope.  He’s not better, not even close, but Mickey thinks he might be a little okay.

 

Mickey shrugs one shoulder.  It’s there now, and though Ian keeps stealing his breaths, it hurts a little less when he does now because he smiles, this small, scared thing that widens when Mickey brushes their noses together, and Mickey just loops his arms around Ian, pulls him close, and presses them together.  “You’re okay,” he whispers, and Ian nods.  He thinks he might be.

**Author's Note:**

> Though I was immensely pleased with the finale, and though I definitely think their first _I love you_ is going to happen next season, I wanted a little bit of a fix-it fic to hold me over for now. These two idiots will likely be the death of me—and my good friend, Tory, who has helped me through the madness that is _Shameless_ and continues to make me sad and happy every time we flail over these failboats in love—so I hope you enjoyed this, and don’t forget to leave your thoughts!


End file.
